The Greater File of the Subject
by Stoplight Delight
Summary: Missing Moment from 'Against the Moon': in 'Provisional Licence', Remus Lupin is absent again, and Professor Filius Flitwick takes note. Dumbledore will have his secrets, but a true Ravenclaw knows how to puzzle around the silences.


' _No, pardon; 'tis a secret must be locked within the  
teeth and the lips: but this I can let you  
understand, the greater file of the subject held the  
duke to be wise.'_

 _~from_ _Measure for Measure_

 **The Greater File of the Subject**

Professor Filius Flitwick was almost immorally fond of oatmeal porridge drizzled with treacle. It was comforting and filling, sweet and wholesome and simple. It reminded him of his mother, and winter mornings in the cosy little house in Hull where he had grown up. The sumptuous variety of the Hogwarts breakfast table – crêpes and waffles, pastries and crumpets, fruits both exotic and domestic, bacon and sausages and eggs served in every way imaginable – held no allure for him. He started his mornings with porridge and treacle, and there was an end to it.

The conversation at the staff table was always pleasant, and today there was no Howler to interrupt it. Yesterday's had been dreadful to hear, filled with rage and vitriol and vague, veiled threats. Filius was not sure how young Sirius Black was able to bear up under such assault day after day. Even one Howler left a student embarrassed and vulnerable to the rebuke of his peers. By Filius's count, the third year had received five in the short fortnight since the start of term. The staff was powerless to stop them: his mother was sending them by Post owls, protected from interference or interception by law, and Howlers were notoriously tamperproof. Filius had carried out a number of experiments the previous weekend, and had been unable to find any way to disable, mute or modify such a message.

'It's a relief to have a bit of hush this morning, isn't it?' asked Thomas Culpepper, drawing Filius out of his troubled musings as if he had heard them. 'I've been meaning to ask someone… is this quite usual? For parents to bombard their children morning after morning with insults and vile language?'

'No,' Filius said, shaking his head regretfully. 'It's a special case, I'm afraid. You see, Sirius Black is insisting upon taking Muggle Studies this year, and his mother doesn't approve. His family is…' He shrugged his small shoulders, unable to find any tasteful way to express his feelings about a house that was notorious in its support of blood-purity and the marginalisation of those who did not fit their rigid ideals.

'I've had my own dealings with the Black family,' said Thomas, pushing his eggs idly around his plate. 'I confess I was astounded to find one of them in Gryffindor.'

'So were we all,' Flitwick agreed. 'But young Sirius is an upstanding young man and a credit to his House.'

'Is he?' Thomas asked. 'He has a reputation as a troublemaker, and I'm beginning to think it's well deserved. Last week, he and Potter imprisoned two of their housemates in an empty classroom. And on Tuesday he handed in the most perplexing essay.'

'Did he, now?' said Filius, his interest piqued. It was always fascinating to hear what Black and Potter were up to. They were troublemakers, certainly, but they were imaginative with it. 'Did he enchant the paper to fold itself into a dragon again? I hope he's worked out how to keep the fiery breath from scorching the page.'

Thomas's eyebrow arched towards his hairline. 'You don't mean to tell me he did that to you?'

'Oh, yes,' Filius said happily, taking another spoonful of porridge and savouring it. 'As it was an essay on time-delayed incantations, I had to give him full marks regardless.'

'Hmph.' Thomas swirled his teacup, studying its depths. 'I'm not at all sure how to approach this one. It's so far from the substance of the assignment that he might as well have neglected it completely. I can't deny that he put a great deal of work into it, but the result is completely irrelevant to Defence Against the Dark Arts. It's unbelievable. I'd be grateful if you would take a look at it. I'd welcome the guidance of a more experienced teacher.'

Filius nodded kindly. He remembered his own early days as a professor, when every class was an exercise in conquering stage fright and every night was spent poring worriedly over lesson plans. 'I'd be happy to, my boy. We have the same preparatory hour, I believe – eleven o'clock? I'll meet you in the staff room, and we can see what should be done.'

The young man smiled gratefully. 'Thank you, Professor,' he said earnestly. 'The Deputy Headmistress has said her door is always open, but I'm reluctant to trouble her needlessly.

'Don't mention it,' Filius said reassuringly. 'Though now we're colleagues you had best call me by my given name, don't you think?'

'I can try,' Thomas allowed. 'Old habits do die hard, after all.'

Flitwick nodded thoughtfully at this, spooning up the last of his breakfast and surveying the crowded House tables before him. The shine of newness was still fresh on the year, and all was well.

 _discidium_

The Ravenclaw and Slytherin NEWT students filed out of the Charms classroom. Filius watched them go, alert to those who seemed worn out or strained by the efforts of the lesson. He did his best to keep a close eye on his seventh years, preparing for the examinations that would determine the course of their whole lives. It was a time of tremendous stress, and not all students were equipped to cope with it. Even before Christmas he expected a dozen tearful breakdowns among those in his own House, and not a year passed without sending one or two students to see the matron in a state of nervous collapse. It was best to be vigilant, and to offer support and guidance as promptly as possible, rather than waiting until the moment of crisis.

The incoming pupils had far less to worry about. Third year Gryffindor was scheduled for the second hour of Friday mornings, and they arrived in small bunches, all moving briskly and some short of breath. Quite a number of them had to come all the way down from the Divination classroom, seven floors and a long ladder away. Filius made a show of studying his papers while he waited for everyone to take their seats, letting the first five minutes of the class idle away so that he was not obliged to reprimand anyone for turning up late.

Wednesday's lesson had been a practical one, and so today's was not. Filius was well into his lecture when he noticed the empty seat in the third row. He did not need to consult his chart to know who ought to be sitting there: a fortnight in, and he had everyone's usual places committed to memory. It served him in place of a register, saving class time for teaching and putting the students at greater ease. He was almost certain that this student, in particular, dreaded the lessons in which he had to announce his presence or be noted for his absence every morning. In his place, Filius certainly would have.

Remus Lupin was missing again.

The first time the child had been absent from his class, Filius had naturally assumed he had fallen prey to one of the myriad psychosomatic ailments brought on by homesickness. It was the most common reason for first years to miss lessons during their first month at Hogwarts, and little Remus Lupin had not even made it a week. When it had happened again a few weeks later, Filius had chalked it up to bad luck. By the fifth time Lupin had missed his class, he began to fear for the boy's health.

He never seemed strong: always pale and often peaky, he frequently turned up to class looking haggard and downright ill. As first year gave way to second, Filius began to notice the days when Lupin sat listlessly in his place, struggling to stay alert, his eyes glazed with fever and his whole body tensed as if against hidden pains. He was too thin at the best of times, and on the days immediately following one of his absences, the bones of his face and his wrists stood out painfully beneath pallid skin. Bruises of exhaustion rimmed his eyes at such times, and on a few occasions – most notably last September – Filius had caught him limping.

Minerva McGonagall was aware of his absences. Every time he disappeared, the Deputy Headmistress would leave a note in Filius's pigeonhole in the staff room. These were always the same: brief, to the point, and devoid of any invitation to ask questions. Filius had a whole sheaf of them tucked up in a file in his office. Every single one bore the same brief legend:

 _Remus Lupin is excused from lessons today due to illness._

It was getting to the point where Filius wondered why Minerva did not simply have an order of notecards done up at the printer's in Hogsmeade. He supposed that would make it too obvious that the absences were expected, planned-for, unavoidable.

'You may break up into groups if you like,' Filius announced. 'We've half an hour left in class. I would recommend making a start on your essays now. It will leave you with more free time over the weekend.'

There was the usual scraping of wooden legs against stone as the students rearranged their desks. Ordinarily Filius liked to observe, interested to see who moved their tables with magic and who was still resorting to brute strength. All of his third years were perfectly capable of shifting a desk with one charm or another, but it told him a great deal about their level of confidence to see how they did it. Today, however, he was puzzling over another matter. He left his desk, satisfied that the students had themselves well in hand. Not all of them would use the time to work, of course, but that scarcely mattered. The essay was due next Friday whether they used their time wisely or not. They were free to visit if they wished to.

There were three bookshelves between the high windows that let the September sunlight stream into the classroom. Filius flicked his wand, causing the high step-stool to skitter down to the one he wanted. He was practiced in the art of navigating a world built for tall people: these little adaptations fazed him not at all. He did wonder, sometimes, how Squibs and Muggles of his stature coped with the countless daily inconveniences. With great ingenuity, he supposed. Necessity was the mother of invention.

He found the almanac just where he had expected to, pressed between two heavy tomes that dealt with the influence of heavens on complex charmwork. Filius climbed back down his ladder, dusting off the slender volume. He had not consulted since June, when last Remus Lupin had gone missing.

Back at his desk, Filius swept his eyes over the class to be sure everyone was peaceful. His gaze lingered a little longer on Black and Potter than on any of the others, his conversation with Thomas Culpepper fresh in his mind. They had not bothered to move their desks: Black had simply swung his chair around to face Potter's, and they were bowed over it almost brow-to-brow. They seemed deep in some sort of conference with Peter Pettigrew, the fourth member of their little gang. Filius thought of him as the fourth, anyhow: he was the one most likely to be left behind or overlooked. He had that sort of personality, easy to pass over. He was not as showy and brilliant as Black and Potter, nor as studious and quietly gifted as Lupin, but Pettigrew had talent. It took him longer to learn a new charm than it did most students, but once he knew it he never forgot – and he had an eye for detail that would serve him very well in the coming years.

Ordinarily, Filius would have been wary to see Black and Potter so obviously engrossed in something completely unrelated to household charms. But Lupin was absent, and it had been almost a year since the other three boys had made any trouble in Flitwick's class when their friend was not with them. He did not know what to make of that, but it was an established and reliable pattern. Old Ravenclaw habits made picking out such patterns second nature to Filius, and he had long ago learned to trust them.

Lupin's disappearances were a pattern, as well, and one that Filius had been tracking for a while now. He had seven months of firm observation, which included last December, when Lupin had stayed at school over the holidays but missed several meals before reappearing in the Great Hall on Christmas Eve. Not until the Easter break had Filius suspected any correlation between the absences and the lunar calendar, but it had been a simple thing to check in retrospect.

And here it was again, Filius noted as he thumbed to the calendar pages at the back of the almanac. The moon had been full on Wednesday night. Thirty-six hours later, Lupin was absent from his class. He supposed the boy would be back in his desk on Monday, wan and sickly and desperate to make up his missed work. Eight months of firm observations, eight months of two to four days' absence immediately after the full moon. Filius nodded with scholarly satisfaction as he laid the almanac on his blotter.

He had found Dumbledore's werewolf at last.

 _discidium_

In March of 1971, the Headmaster had approached him with plans to convert an abandoned house on the outskirts of Hogsmeade into a secure property. Dumbledore had some very rigid requirements. The building would have to be impossible to enter from the outside, and impossible to exit from within save by means of a trap door and tunnel that he intended to have built. It would have to be impervious to Apparition, its fireplaces rendered invisible to the Ministry of Magic so that they could never be added to the Floo Network. Doors and windows and chimney all had to be sealed within and without, so that no living thing could enter or leave the house by any means save by the tunnel.

Far more complex were the restrictions on supernatural beings. Dumbledore wanted to be sure that ghosts could not access the property either. 'We shall be putting out the story that we're relocating some of our rowdier ghosts, Filius,' he said. 'The wards on the property need to reflect that. And besides,' he had added with a twinkle in his eye; 'I'd prefer to discourage Peeves from mounting any investigation of his own into the contents of the house.'

Filius had merely nodded his assent, and spent most of the summer term researching the appropriate charms and protections to ensure that no trespasser, living or dead, could access the empty house in Hogsmeade.

At the end of June, the conversion had begun. A team of goblins had arrived in the village, lodging at _The Hog's Head_ under the watchful eyes of Aberforth Dumbledore. Every morning just before dawn, Filius had met them at the abandoned house, admitting them through a door not yet sealed off so that they could continue their excavations while he worked on the house itself. He did not find Dumbledore's story believable – for one thing, the Hogwarts ghosts were generally very well-behaved – but it was not his place to question it. He had no firm theory of his own until mid-July, when he had been called in to see the Headmaster again.

'There have been some changes to the plans for the house, Filius,' Dumbledore had said, once the two of them were settled with cups of tea and a plate of jelly biscuits. 'I thought I had considered everything, but it seems I was mistaken. I have a list of other modifications that have to be made to the property. I hope they will not undermine any of the work you have already done, but I have been told on no uncertain terms that these considerations are every bit as important as the wards and the security measures.'

He had not told Filius who had dared to tell him _on no uncertain terms_ that his measures were inadequate, simply handing over the list of demands. These put paid to any pretence of the house being meant for the nearly departed. Someone was insisting that the Headmaster take steps to ensure that the house was insulated against cold, that the roof did not leak, that the chimneys still drew smoke. The mould behind the baseboards had to be removed, the floors sanded down so they were free of splinters, and the sink in the kitchen plumbed in with clean, potable water. Whoever the house was meant for, he or she was very much alive and had to be protected from thirst, disease and the bite of winter.

Filius had been working on these considerations for almost a fortnight when he recognise the handwriting on the scrap of parchment. Dumbledore's plans for the house had been vetted – and vetoed – by Madam Pomfrey.

By mid-August, the conversion was complete. The tunnel came up in the middle of the school grounds, and Pomona Sprout had been given the daunting task of transplanting a Whomping Willow to guard the entrance. It had come all the way from Essex, no sapling but a full-grown tree. Filius was thankful that he had not been the one tasked with the logistics of that move. He wondered how the Headmaster had persuaded Theseus and Pleione Smythe to give up such a botanical treasure, but the strategy was brilliant. The tree had taken hungrily to its new, mossy soil, and the huge roots obscured the entrance to the tunnel. The wild, violent branches – constantly vigilant and ready to attack anything that drew too near – made it impossible for anyone to access it unless they knew which knot would numb the Willow. It was a simple and elegant solution.

All through that autumn and winter, Filius had put the house from his mind. He had done what was asked of him, and if Dumbledore did not feel the need to share the purpose of the precautions that was his own business. Filius Flitwick trusted Albus Dumbledore implicitly. He was a wise man, and when he did something peculiar he had his reasons. There was an end to it.

Then the killings had begun. Rumblings of discontent among the blood-purist families had grown, and masked wizards had mounted attacks on innocent Muggles. Muggle-borns began to disappear or turn up dead: always those in respected professions or civil service. The rumours of a blood-supremacist operating out of Croydon had begun to ripple through the wizarding community. And Dumbledore had met with his most trusted members of staff to explain the situation, and to lay out his plans to subvert the man calling himself Lord Voldemort.

And Filius had remembered the house, secured from without and within, inaccessible save from a tunnel that could only be reached by someone with access to the Hogwarts grounds – by someone, in short, with Dumbledore's leave to be on the premises. He remembered the measures taken to make the place habitable, at Madam Pomfrey's insistence. Dumbledore had presented the project to him as the constructing of a safe house, and now Filius believed that was exactly what it was: a haven to shelter one of the Headmaster's faithful allies. Someone was hiding from the Death Eaters, and they were hiding in the abandoned house in Hogsmeade.

It had made perfect sense, at least for a little while. But a good theory had to evolve to fit the available facts, and soon Filius had another set of facts to consider. By the spring of '72, the folk of Hogsmeade were talking about the place. There were sounds coming from the building at night: screams and shrieks and howls, the clatter and crash of furniture being thrown about, the noises of souls in torment. The rumour Dumbledore had put about when they started work on the place was spreading: there were violent ghosts in the house, carefully contained for the safety of the villagers. It was an established fact, so far as the patrons of _The Three Broomsticks_ were concerned.

But Filius, who had said from the beginning that it was impossible to cast a Silencing Charm that would encompass a whole building, knew that was not the truth. There were no ghosts. There had never been any ghosts. And why would one of Dumbledore's supporters, in hiding for reasons known only to the Headmaster, raise a ruckus and bring attention to the sanctuary?

Then someone had worked out that the noises only came at the full moon, and Filius knew the truth. All of those measures to secure the house, to make it impenetrable to even the most dedicated of trespassers, and to ensure it fit for human habitation served one end. Dumbledore was harbouring a werewolf in the abandoned house in Hogsmeade – perhaps all month long, perhaps only at the full moon, Filius did not know and it did not matter. He had the solution to his puzzle at last.

It was understandable. The Ministry required that werewolves secure themselves at the full moon, for the protection of the innocent and the security of the werewolf. The penalties for failing to do so were severe, weighted according to the consequences, and under certain circumstances a werewolf could face execution if he or she killed a human while transformed. Most witches and wizards took for granted that all werewolves had the means to take the necessary precautions.

Filius Flitwick, who had a dash of part-human blood in his own veins, was not so naïve. Werewolves existed on the margins of wizarding society. If they were able to find work at all, they could be dismissed for cause if their secret ever came to light. They did not have the protections that those of goblin ancestry enjoyed: the centuries of goblin uprisings and the influence that goblins held in wizarding finance afforded hard-won rights and a classification of Beings under British law. Werewolves had none of this. The curse brought with it almost certain poverty, ostracism, and crippling symptoms that made it nearly impossible to hide the truth for long. Filius's own struggles against the prejudice and intolerance of the magical elite paled in comparison to what a werewolf had to face.

To expect those who struggled even to feed themselves to have access to secured properties, sturdy buildings, and the means to magically ward them was absurd. Some werewolves were fortunate enough to keep ties to their family and friends. Some were bitten as fully qualified witches or wizards, able to provide for their own magical restraints. The rest simply had to shift as best they could, and the solutions left to them were imperfect and unreliable.

It was just like Albus Dumbledore to offer a werewolf a safe place to transform. If one of his many friends and faithful followers had fallen prey to one of the indigent or the careless (or the malicious, for there were rumours of werewolves intentionally flouting the law and placing themselves deliberately near potential victims), of course the Headmaster would do what he could to help the unfortunate soul. So the house had been provided. It was an extravagant gesture, will all the trouble and expense, with the favours called in and the staff summoned to help. But it was perfectly in keeping with Dumbledore's noble heart.

Of course, even after Filius had determined the house was tenanted by a werewolf, it had taken him a long time to believe the considerations could possible be meant for a student.

 _discidium_

When the last of the third year Gryffindors shuffled out of the classroom, Filius made a broad sweep of his wand. Those desks that had been carelessly returned to their places, canted out of formation or hanging over into the aisle, snapped back into place in the crisp rows. The chairs all snugged up at the same instant, legs scraping against the floor. He cleared the chalkboard with another flick, and looked around in satisfaction at the orderly classroom. He closed the door behind him, but he did not lock it. Filius never locked his classroom. If students came early, they could take their seats instead of loitering in the corridors. As a matter of fact, the subject of today's interest had availed himself of the invitation more than once, particularly in his first year when Gryffindor's lesson had been right after breakfast.

Remus Lupin. It was all so obvious now, when he had assembled all of the information so meticulously, that Flitwick wondered how he had not seen it from the beginning. The Headmaster had started work on the house in the spring before Lupin's first year, and it had all been completed for the first of September. Surely it should have been self-evident that the arrangements were made for a student starting at Hogwarts that year. But it had seemed so improbable that a werewolf would be allowed to attend school. It had not even occurred to Filius as a possibility, not until the evidence had built up to undeniable proportions.

The Board of Governors could not know. It was inconceivable that they would give their consent. There were a few moderates on the Board, but far more of the old blood, old money families that clung to their ancient traditions and their ancient intolerance with all the considerable power they possessed. Men like Abraxas Malfoy and Drusus Selwyn had vigorously opposed even Filius's own appointment to the school, and his goblin blood was several generations removed. Even the moderates, surely, would have shrunk from the idea of allowing a dangerous part-human, one whose condition was genuinely contagious, if only once a month, to attend a school that boarded all the children of magical Britain. It was obvious to Filius that Dumbledore had made the decision to admit the boy to Hogwarts without consulting the Governors, and that they had to be kept in the dark.

Who did know, he wondered? Madam Pomfrey, obviously. Filius supposed that it was she who took care of the boy in the wake of the transformations. He had done a great deal of reading over the summer, and he knew now that a werewolf separated from human prey would attack itself in its frenzy of bloodlust and violence. That was what the villagers heard on the night of the full moon: the hellish noises that the Lupin boy made as he transformed, as he tore at himself with cursed fangs, and as he changed back once more. Filius shivered, pushing open the staff room door and trying to close his mind to that thought.

Minerva knew. She had to know. It was she who wrote the Spartan little notes every month, excusing Lupin's absences so that his other teachers did not pry too deeply into the matter. And she was the boy's Head of House. It would have been common courtesy to inform her of his situation. A nervous little laugh rose to Flitwick's lips. Just what _was_ common courtesy in such circumstances? He doubted it was covered in any of the etiquette guides his mother had read so avidly.

The staff room was a warm and welcoming space. A merry fire was dancing in the hearth, though the day was mild and the windows were open to admit the fragrant autumn air. Mismatched armchairs were strewn about, some gathered around small round tables and others clustered for conversation. There was a sideboard along one long wall, always supplied with tea and baking, and a wardrobe at the far end where the teachers whose classrooms were not near their offices kept spare sets of robes. At this hour of the morning, it was deserted.

Filius helped himself to a cup of tea and took his favourite chair, which was low enough that he could sit with his feet on the floor, and positioned with a good view of the courtyard. The tea was very good – it was always very good – and it eased his nerves a little.

He had promised himself one more disappearance, one more full moon, to confirm his theory. He had allowed himself the whole summer to enjoy the last fragments of reasonable doubt. He had allowed himself to cling to the possibility, the fragile and fading possibility, that he was mistaken. But he had also told himself, with an academician's stern resolve, that if Remus Lupin fell ill again in the days immediately following the full moon, that would settle the matter: he would have to believe it, and he would have to find a way to cope with it.

But how did one cope with something like this? Filius wished now that he had _not_ done all of that reading. It was a futile wish. He was a dyed-in-the-bone Ravenclaw, and the quest for knowledge was eternal and ineluctable. He could no more stop himself from burrowing after the answer to a question than he could stop himself from breathing. And he had burrowed, all right. He had burrowed, and he had unearthed things he did not want to think about.

The realities of the transformation were terrible enough. The fact that Remus Lupin – still just a child, even if he was thirteen this year – had to endure the brutal changes to his frail body every month was sickening. Yet Filius thought the loss of humanity must be far worse. Lupin was quiet and polite, considerate and kind and so careful of his own dignity. What must he suffer at moonrise, when all that was stripped away? All of the books emphasised that a transformed werewolf was insensate and savage. None of them addressed where the mind of the person fled to during the hours of moonlight.

Nor did the boy's woes end with the ugly realities of the change itself. What future did he have ahead of him? He was being given an opportunity that, so far as Flitwick knew, no child-werewolf had ever been given before: the chance at a proper education. But how would that serve him? Werewolves bitten as adults could be educated, qualified, skilled with a wand. Yet when the truth was known, they were still reviled: cast out of their jobs, abandoned by their friends, turned out of their homes, even deserted by their families. What would happen to Remus Lupin if the truth came out? The Board of Governors would not hesitate to expel him, Filius was certain of that. The thought of his hardworking young pupil forced to stand before those men, watching as they snapped the supple cypress wand that did such reliable charmwork, made Filius's stomach turn.

The tea held no appeal now. He laid it aside with an unsteady hand. That would be the most catastrophic scenario for the child, but there were others. Flitwick had worked it out: others could as well. He shared a dormitory with several other boys, James Potter and Sirius Black among them. What if his friends one day decided to start tracking his absences? They were intelligent young men. They would work it out if they put their minds to it. And what then? The Headmaster might be able to prevent them from telling their parents – Black, at least, seemed unlikely to want to tell his domineering mother anything at all. But Dumbledore could not command what was in a child's heart.

They would abandon him, surely. Wizard-born and wizard-bred, would Potter and Black even pause to wonder if the old prejudices were warranted or not? Or would they recoil from the part-human, the Dark Creature, the werewolf, not realising they were also leaving the boy, their friend, behind? Filius remembered how his betrothed's brother had responded to the revelation of his own mixed heritage. That fissure endured in the family to this very day.

The staff room door swung open, startling Filius out of his bleak thoughts. He had almost forgotten his promise to consult with Thomas Culpepper about the Defence Against the Dark Arts essay. He straightened in his chair, gripping both armrests to adjust himself, and tried to find the words to put the young man off politely until another day.

But Thomas was approaching, a fat roll of parchment in his hand and a look of tremendous relief upon his face. 'I can't thank you enough for this, Prof—er, Filius,' he said. 'I'm at sixes and sevens with Sirius Black. It's like having a live volcano in the classroom, just waiting for it to erupt.'

Filius's longing to be left alone with his troubled thoughts dissolved. Thomas was young and new to the job, and even the most experienced of the staff were sometimes at a loss where Black and Potter were concerned. Their penchant for mischief was counterbalanced by their undeniable charm and the fact that they rarely meant any serious harm.

'Have a seat, Thomas, and tell me what's wrong with the essay,' Filius said, trying to sound like his usual cheery self.

Culpepper drew up a chair, tucking his long legs uneasily. He handed over the parchment. 'I set them a simple assignment: ten inches on the Ministry's restrictions on werewolves, and methods of securing them at the full moon.'

'Werewolves?' Filius yelped. It seemed too much of a coincidence, given the thoughts that had been plaguing him. He cleared his throat and tried to nod soberly. 'I suppose that makes sense. It's Defence Against the Dark Arts after all.'

'Yes,' sighed Culpepper, running a hand through his dark hair. 'Professor Meyrigg was supposed to cover them last year, you see, but she took ill around that time. The Hufflepuffs got both lectures, but Ravenclaw only got one and Slytherin none at all. I understand it was in the middle of Gryffindor's first lesson on the subject that Professor Meyrigg had her… erm… her…'

He gestured awkwardly, a bachelor's discomfort with matters of childbearing obvious. Filius took pity on him. 'Had her bit of trouble,' he said. 'Yes, I think that's right. They kept their heads very well for second years, I understand. Professor McGonagall was very proud.'

'In any case,' Culpepper said, eyes roaming wildly as he tried to dismiss the subject from his mind; 'the third years didn't have a comprehensive understanding of werewolves, so I've been reteaching it to bring everyone up to the same level. It's standard material on the OWL. I set the assignment, nothing out of the ordinary at all, except that Black turned _that_ in.'

He pointed savagely at the roll of parchment. It was tied with a snippet of black satin ribbon, which Sirius Black seemed to have in endless supply for tying up his class work. Filius undid the bow and let the parchment slip through his fingers, sliding over his lap and covering his feet as he unrolled it to the top.

' _A Person Before the Law, by Sirius Black_ ,' he read.

Culpepper made a noise of frustration deep in his throat. 'It's thirty-six inches,' he said. 'A full roll of parchment, and he's crammed as much onto it as he possibly can without going over onto the back. Well, the bibliography's on the back, but – I didn't ask for a bibliography! It was a simple comprehension exercise! He's given me a bloody research paper. It's even got footnotes. He's cited wizarding law, Muggle law, medieval common law, and some sort of an agreement the Muggles in Europe made after Grindelwald's defeat.'

Filius was hardly listening. He was reading the opening paragraph. Sirius Black was a very gifted student. He was fiercely intelligent and had obviously been provided with the very best of tutors before coming to Hogwarts. He wrote at a very sophisticated level out of habit, but even so this was remarkably high-quality work. The clarity of the language and the precision of the thesis far exceeded anything Flitwick would have expected of a third year, and it was a cut above Black's usual work in Charms, as well. He had obviously put a tremendous amount of effort and thought into this composition.

'It appears to be an essay on the rights of werewolves,' he said slowly, his mouth moving carefully even as his mind raced.

'Precisely!' said Culpepper, throwing up his hands and slumping far back in the chair. 'It's the sort of thing a first year law student might be expected to turn out – apart from the indefensible position, of course. I know a teacher should never discourage a student from taking an active interest in their studies, and that extra effort's always a good thing, but how on _earth_ do I mark something like this?'

'I don't know…' Filius mumbled vacantly. He had finished the introductory paragraph, and was now scanning the body of the text. Part of him wanted to be sure that Black's position remained consistent throughout. The rest of him was caught up in the implications of this. He could not quite believe it. It seemed too good to be true, and yet…

'I mean, it's preposterous, of course: werewolves aren't entitled to protection under the _Concord for the Treatment of Magical Citizens_ , nor should they be,' Culpepper was saying. 'And that bit about gainful employment is just… I mean, really! How much does he expect law-abiding wizards to do? There's no helping those who won't help themselves, and Dark Creatures shouldn't be put in positions of trust. I'm not sure if Black's trying to wind me up, or just wasting my time with nonsense. I'm sorry: you're reading. I'll keep my mouth shut.'

Filius was not reading, not anymore. He had read enough. The arguments were detailed, cogent, well-organised and thoroughly footnoted. It was everything the Ravenclaw Head of House could have asked from student work, and a far sight more than he usually got. But the quality of the work was secondary. It was the content itself that had Filius's mind in a tumult. Black had written thirty-six inches of parchment in defence of werewolves. He hadn't done that to set himself apart from his parents, or to play games with a new teacher. He had done it because he believed what he was writing.

Sirius Black knew the truth about Remus Lupin. He knew, and he was standing by his friend.

Filius wondered if Black had shown Lupin this essay. He hoped that he had. In his own life, Flitwick had tasted the ambrosia of acceptance after the bitter gall of bigotry. He had seen friends of his own stand up for him against the cruel comments of the closed-minded. He had never been faced with half of what a werewolf would have to suffer, but he understood. That kind of loyalty, that kind of love, meant more than anything else when you were unsure of yourself and your place in the world.

He rolled up the parchment hurriedly, the back of his throat stinging. He blinked very rapidly, thinking of the boy who even now was likely lying in the hospital wing under Madam Pomfrey's watchful eyes. He thought of Black and Potter, always so solicitous of their friend when he came back to class pale and wasted, bruised and limping. Black knew. They both knew. They had not abandoned him.

Small wonder Minerva was willing to give them such latitude, when she did not ordinarily tolerate smart remarks and wanton mischief. She was not merely swayed by their charm: she had seen their true mettle, the courage and forbearance that many full-grown wizards did not dare to show. Everyone knew that Black and Potter were remarkable boys, but _this…_ this went far beyond any reasonable expectation.

'Well?' Thomas asked, nodding at the parchment. 'What should I do?'

Filius looked at him, debating what to say. He could not draw the young man's attention to the substance of the essay. He had only been listening with half an ear, but he had heard the familiar language of prejudice. Dumbledore had not seen fit to inform the whole staff of Remus Lupin's situation, and this was why: because even among the most gifted educators in Britain, these biases ran deep. It was not Filius Flitwick's place to betray a secret that no one even knew he shared. He was not about to confront Dumbledore. He would never let on to Lupin that he knew the truth. And he would not raise Thomas Culpepper's suspicions.

'Talk to Black about it,' he advised. 'Explain to him why it's important to do the assignment as you've set it. Then give him a mark that you feel's commensurate with his effort.'

Culpepper nodded. 'Fine,' he said. 'But how do I know he understands the material? There's not a word in there about securing a werewolf at the full moon.'

Black knew the truth. It was likely that he also knew about the house in Hogsmeade, which _The Daily Prophet_ had so colourfully christened the Shrieking Shack. He likely did not know the nature of the charms and wards that protected it, or the extensive efforts that Filius had put in to making the place not only impenetrable and inescapable but also inhabitable. But if Black cared about his friend at all – as his fervent support of the rights of werewolves indicated he did – then he certainly understood the importance of securing Remus Lupin at the full moon.

'Oh, I don't think you need to worry about that,' Filius said airily. 'Sirius Black doesn't seem to pay attention in any of our lessons, but he always learns everything anyhow. Put a question on your next exam: you'll see.'

Thomas groaned. 'Oh, he's one of _those_ , is he? Sometimes I think we'd be better off just teaching the Hufflepuffs and the Ravenclaws, and leaving Gryffindor and Slytherin to their own devices.'

Filius laughed softly. 'Now, Thomas, it wouldn't do to leave a student behind, would it? Whatever their nature?' As soon as he spoke the words, he knew that he was not thinking of Black.

The younger man sighed, pushed himself up in the chair, and grinned ruefully. 'I suppose not,' he allowed.

 _finis_


End file.
